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Thursday, December 11, 2014

I've been writing a decent amount lately. Just not.....here (sorry). So do you want to read my things? First thing I recommend is liking my facebook page. I keep a note of most of the links to my writing right here:

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

After the murder of Michael Brown and the macing of an
innocent black man in Westlake Center I found myself in a panel of brown
people, talking to an auditorium of white people, about violence against black
Americans. We talked about the acts themselves – their brutality. We watched
video of a man being maced for simply being black in public. We saw his cries
for water to help his burning eyes.

But what I saw, and what the other panel members saw, was
the look of recognition in his eyes. The resignation and sadness for what was
going to happen to him. And when I looked at the eyes of my fellow panel
members – they had the same look.

Then I noticed the gasps and cries of the white audience
matched the gasps and cries of the white people at Westlake Center. Their
shock. Their horror. This was too far. This was too much.

“How could this happen?”

“We’re here to stop the violence.”

When one panelist tried to talk about systemic abuse and
racism he was interrupted by a white audience member who said that this wasn’t
what she came to hear. She came to find out what she could do to stop racists
from attacking black people.

And as much as I’d like to be hopeful, the reaction of the
audience cemented to me that we weren’t doing anything that evening to prevent
the deaths of black men and women.

They shouldn’t have been shocked. This isn’t even the real
violence. This isn’t what kills you.

If all we had to worry about was a cop with a gun or a can
of mace, we wouldn’t need marches. We wouldn’t need to watch videos and shake
our heads in sadness at these racists that make things hard for everyone.

So here’s what’s killing me. What’s killing us.

With both of my pregnancies, my white friends would joke “what
are you going to name your child? Some weird black name like ‘D’jayson’ or
something?” variations of this joke abounded. But when having a “black”
sounding name means you are 50% less likely to be called in for a job
interview, those jokes are violent. There are no allies rallying against that.

When school funding is based on property taxes it means that
children of poor families (and therefore more likely children of color) receive
a substandard of education while children of rich families receive a superior
education. It locks children into a cycle of poverty. This is violent. There
are no allies rallying against that.

When it is suggested that I straighten my hair for job
interviews, I am being told that my nature is not approved. I can only move
forward in the business world and provide a better life for my children if I
deny who I am and take on a whiter persona. This is violent. There are no
allies rallying against that.

When white feminists decry the misogyny in rap lyrics and
ignore its mimicry of white patriarchy, its history based in slavery and the
purposeful destruction of the African American family and the commodification
of black women – that is violent. There are no allies rallying against that.

When a show like Game of Thrones can imagine entire worlds
with monsters and magical beings, and yet can’t imagine black people who aren’t
slaves, that is violent. It is a reminder that even in worlds with no limits,
there is no place for us that we aren’t less than. There are no allies rallying
against that.

When a person of color speaks up against racism and is told
that “it’s not that bad” or “it’s not real racism” that is a denial of our
experience as humans. It is a silencing of our voice. It is a reassurance that
the issue will never be addressed. It is violent. There are no allies rallying
against that.

When we are told we have to “be nicer” when discussing race
and privilege we are being told that our basic rights and humanity come with
preconditions. We have to earn it. That is violence. There are no allies
rallying against that.

When people make fun of AAVE and laugh at words like “axe”
used for “ask” they are reiterating that our dialect is inferior to theirs. The
language they modified to suit their needs is superior to the language we
modified to suit ours. We are viewed as stupid, uneducated, “classless” because
of this. It affects our job prospects, our quality of education, our quality of
medical care. It is violent. There are no allies rallying against that.

When people blame inner-city violence on single mothers they
are denying the effects of the systemic ghettoization of black people, high
unemployment, substandard schools, and the prison industrial complex. This
ensures that none of these things change and that women of color do not receive
true help for their families. This is violence. There are no allies rallying
against that.

This is what’s killing us. This and so much more like it. We
aren’t being picked off one by one at random police stops. We are being
suffocated by these small, silent attacks. This society – the “good” people are
the ones hurting us. And stopping this, addressing this, is much harder than
sitting in a room and saying “look at the bad racist” it means looking into
yourself and accepting that you have hurt us. And that you will have to change
your everyday actions in order to stop.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

My grandfather – GrandBob – was the best grandfather any
girl could have asked for. He was a cranky crotchety old guy who just happened
to think that his granddaughter could run the world. He was a feminist –
unconcerned with my looks or “girlishness” and only concerned with my brain and
my heart. He was my only father figure. He was an unfailing rock of support.
His love was home.

I loved him more than I can put to words. And when he died
this last winter, I did not collapse into tears, because his Alzheimer’s had
already been slowly taken him from me for years. There was no goodbye.

“It’s good he didn't suffer.” My brother and I said to each
other.

“This was a good death.”

Instead, I sat in a mild depression that I wasn't fully
aware of. Just a cloud of what I had lost following me around. My light had
dimmed. I didn't know how to process it.

GrandBob’s funeral wasn't until this summer, in July. He had
been cremated, so it was postponed until the family could all make it to Kansas
where he had moved with his wife and son for the last years of his life.

This was going to be goodbye.

We arrived at my great-grandmother’s house the night before.
Still looking very much the same as when I was last there, 8 years ago. We don’t
visit often. We aren't close to this part of the family. We are the black ones.
We are the ones who had babies too young. We are the drug addicts and poor ones
and fat ones. They love us. They are more than kind. We don’t fit in. There are
no pictures of us on the walls.

“I have nothing in common with them,” my brother worried as
I gave him some Xanax for the trip, “What are we going to talk about?”

We say our pleasantries. We hug. I talk about the house I
just bought. My cousin bought a house too. We share real estate stories. My
brother wrestles with the kids on the floor. We eat a boring Kansas meal and go
to bed.

The next day is all nerves. It’s funeral day. My mom doesn't
know what to do. She doesn't know how to feel, I can see that in her. She wasn't
close to her dad. He wasn't the same man when he raised her that he was when he
helped raise us. He didn't know how to show love for her. He didn't know how to
be a rock for her. So my mom is pacing. She’s worrying. She’s helping the kids
get dressed and reminding everyone about the timeline. Her voice is too loud.

“Where are the ashes?! Do we have the ashes?” She asks the crowd
worriedly. Someone hands them to her. They are in a large plastic bag. She
looks up at me with giant, almost scared eyes.

“This is him.” She says, lifting the bag up to me. “Feel it,
this is all there is.”

I shake my head and walk away. She approaches my brother and
he does the same. None of us know what to do.

We are all ready to go, but we can’t leave. My uncle hasn't
arrived yet. My grandma went to pick him up and she’s not here yet. We aren't
surprised that he is making us late. We are all nervous waiting on him. My niece
sweetly straightens up the back of her dad’s coat while he nervously prepares
to play trumpet at the ceremony. I yell at the other kids to stop running
around.

Finally my uncle arrives. He exits my grandma’s van and it’s
like a punch in the stomach. I wasn’t prepared for this – I don’t know why. I
thought I’d been used to seeing the man who molested me as a child, who punched
my mother at my birthday party, who violently raped two women. I’ve seen him
plenty of times. For a while he was living in my basement. But these years away
while he’s been in Kansas have destroyed my defenses. My ears start ringing.

“You won’t believe what happened you guys” he starts to say,
too fast. He’s high as fuck. He looks like utter shit.

My mom cuts him off, “I don’t want to hear it. We have to
go.”

He tries again and my mom cuts him off again.

“Fucking cunt bitch.” He says as he throws a sprite can into
my great grandmother’s lovingly manicured yard.

The sound in my ears is deafening as I rush to him. “NO” I
say. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I just know that right now he can’t do
this.

He puts his hand up in my face, “Stay away from me bitch. I
don’t like you. You aren't a good person. Stay away.”

My 12 year old niece is at my side, shaking with anger, “What
did he just say? I've never seen anything so disrespectful.” She looks like she’s
about to hit him. My grandma pulls my uncle into the car.

I get in my car with my kids and my brother. I’m driving and
I’m not hearing anything. I’m just driving. I’m worried about running out of
gas.

My brother is fuming. “I will fucking end him. If he tries
any of this shit at the funeral I will call the fucking cops.”

And then he puts his hand on my arm. “I've got your back” he
says.

That’s when I realize I've been crying. And I look at his
hand on my arm and I can barely drive I’m crying so hard.

“I've got your back.”

All these years, everybody knew about the abuse. We don’t
talk about it. Nobody had said that to me before. Nobody has had my back.

So now I’m in the car, and I’m driving to my grandfather’s
funeral, and I’m crying over the actions of a crackhead child molester. I
almost start to hyperventilate I’m trying so hard to stop crying.

“But Ijeoma, I have a serious question to ask you,” my
brother says solemnly, “Does it bother you that Bill thinks you’re a bad
person?”

I start laughing hysterically.

“I bet he was a good person when he was a baby though” my
six year old son adds. And I can breathe again.

By the time we reach the funeral my Xanax has kicked in. I’m
numb. My brother makes a beeline for my uncle.

“Hey, I’m sorry I went off on your mother and sister like
that, but you have to admit they were being a couple of bitches.”

And my brother completely loses it. They are shouting at
each other. My brother is threatening to call the cops. My uncle is threatening
to call them back. But my brother didn't hit him, that’s not who he is.

But his rage and frustration at our uncle collides with the
sudden realization that we are here to bury a man that he loved just as much as
I did. He collapses on the ground in tears. His daughter rush over, worried,
and he clings to them like they will save his life.

I don’t remember much of the ceremony. It was brief. I
sprinkled some of his ashes. The kids sat down and read a book while the
grownups figured out the logistics for the remembrance dinner at a nearby
country club.

We got to the dinner and realized that there was no alcohol.
“Can you ask a manager?” I say to the waitress as my brother looks on in
similar panic. He sends an urgent text to a cousin who hasn't arrived. She
shows up and sneaks us a flask. We run outside.

It’s just the two of us, my brother and I. Like it has
always been. We avoid eye contact and eagerly wave over a member of the country
club staff who is having a smoke break. He’s an older black man. He says we’re
the first black people he’s seen at the club all week. We share a cigarette and
stories. I want to hug him for giving us this break. He says he hates Kansas.
Seattle sounds better. If he ever comes to Seattle he’ll look us up.

It’s time to go back inside for speeches. My brother has his
written down. It’s beautiful. My mom’s is weird and honest and lovely. My uncle’s
is all about how he met his girlfriend because she was wandering around his
yard the morning after GrandBob passed. “I know my dad sent her” he says.
Nobody is looking at him.

I can’t remember most of my speech, but I do okay. I am good
at speaking on the fly. My uncle hands me a tissue as I leave the podium and I
absentmindedly take it and set it on the table. I have no tears. He stole them
all.

I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe my GrandBob was
looking down on this, and I’m glad for that. But it should have been better.
Nobody should have been high. Nobody should have been yelling. I should have
cried. He deserved so much better.

And when I look in my heart for the things I should have
said on that podium, the things I should have been able to feel – the words are
few.

GrandBob,

I am the luckiest girl in the world to have been loved by
you. You were my safe place, you were my biggest cheerleader. You were the only
one who knew me and loved me for exactly who I was. You were so PROUD of me and
I felt that every single day. And goddamn I miss you so much. And I didn't know
when your mind began to slip that we would never have a conversation about
politics again. I didn't know that my kids wouldn't get to see how funny you
are. I didn't know that I’d never get to say goodbye. And I’m so sorry I didn't
get to say it. And I’m so sorry that I didn't ask for one more story or call
one more time. But I will tell my kids every story and I will share every
picture. And I will cheer them like you cheered me and I will make sure they
know that it is because of you that I can. I love you. I love you. I love you.

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About Me

I'm a single mom in the Seattle area trying my best to create an authentic life for myself and my two boys. I love politics, crafts, books and music. I'm also a new vegan. I'm trying to make an adventure out of ordinary life - come join me!
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